


Among the Rubble

by startwithsparks



Category: Deadpool (Comics)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission gone slight awry, Weasel finds himself trying to take care of his boyfriend while trying to deal with his insane roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among the Rubble

It had been hours since Wade abruptly announced he had very important business to deal with and crashed out the front door with Bob, still struggling into his HYDRA suit, scrambling along after him. In the past, very important business had meant everything from an Elvis sighting to fighting Dracula to scouring San Francisco for Doritos Locos tacos at two o'clock in the morning. Most of the time Weasel barely paid attention to what his roommate was doing, aside from the amount of attention it took to equip him for whatever job he went on. This time there was this weird niggling paranoia that settled on his shoulders not long after the door slammed behind them and it wouldn't let up. Wade left with only his swords strapped to his back, tugging on his mask with one hand and shoving something unseen into one of those bottomless pouches on his belt; there was no obvious reason for his worry, but there was something that kept digging at him to the point of distraction.

He didn't try to dissect it, knowing how prone to destruction Wade was in the first place and attempted to concentrate on Ben Browder's ass in tight pants instead. But three _Farscape_ DVDs in and he was still checking his phone and his email, looking out the windows for sirens or fire, and yelling down to Al's room every half hour to make sure that some masked madman hadn't taken a preschool hostage or anything. He didn't care if Wade came back minus an arm or half his face, something that would grow back before breakfast, but Wade had a tendency to forget that the people around him were not as invulnerable as he was. But Bob could handle himself well enough, Weasel rationalized, he had years of training and a natural inclination to duck and cover when things got hairy. There was no reason to let it bother him so much when there were Jim Henson aliens he could be concentrating on instead.

The evening rolled into early morning and Weasel dozed off and on, stretched across the living room couch in his underwear, until at some truly ridiculous hour of the morning the front door racketed open, banged against the wall, and jolted Weasel upright so fast that he knocked one of the cushions off the end of the couch. He glared at the doorway, watching the pair round the stairs and make their way down the short hallway. Wade had his mask pulled up over his wide-grinning, scarred face, carrying a McDonald's bag in one hand with a pair of My Little Pony Happy Meals pinned under his arm. Bob was right behind him, sucking down an iced coffee, with his arm held awkwardly in against his chest. Weasel zeroed in on that arm immediately and pushed himself off the couch before the two could get more than a few feet inside the doorway.

"What happened?" he asked, reaching out to pry the coffee out of Bob's hands.

Bob's reluctance to give up the cup gave Wade just enough time to interject with his own play-by-play. "Well, as it turns out we had a welcoming party - ones with guns and fists and incredibly out-dated facial-"

"Not _you_ , idiot..." Weasel glared over his shoulder.

Wade frowned at him. "And to think I _was_ going to give you the one with Pinkie Pie in it, but just for that," he hugged the Happy Meal box to his chest and stuck out his tongue.

"But I wanted Pinkie Pie..." Bob said, sulking over his shoulder at the other man.

"Nope," Wade chirped, tossing the other box and the larger bag on the couch. "Your boyfriend has no appreciation for my stories so I'm going to go tell Pinkie about my night instead. You get Applejack."

"I already have Applejack," Bob said, turning his head back to Weasel and trying to give him the most imploring look he could muster.

"Forget about your ponies for ten seconds," Weasel insisted, reaching out instead for the arm Bob was still holding against his chest. "What happened to _you_?"

Bob looked down and shrugged. "It's nothing," he said. "I'm fine."

Weasel frowned, taking Bob by the upper arm and extending his arm away from his chest, feeling up from his wrist in slight, gentle touches. About halfway to his elbow, Bob hissed sharply through his teeth and recoiled, and Weasel could feel the way the bone jutted out of place under his fingertips. "Goddammit, Wade..." he muttered. "Why didn't you take him to the hospital?"

"What?" he muttered around a chicken nugget. "He said he was fine."

"His fucking arm is broken, he is _not_ fine! And he's your responsibility when he's with you, you fucking-"

"Jack..." Bob said softly, the fingers of his good hand curling in his boyfriend's shirt. The sound of his own name didn't instantly diffuse his anger, but it came pretty close. Bob stopped his tirade and glanced over. "I wanted you to take me. Do you really want to see Mister Wilson in an emergency room?"

He had a point. Bob heaved a sigh and, without looking over, pointed across the room towards Wade's bedroom. "You _go_ ," he commanded, watching Wade slink off with a grumble at the toy pony in his Happy Meal. "And you..." he looked up at Bob, "try to get your suit off, I'm going to get clothes and get you to the hospital. You know," he paused, looking pointedly up at the other man, "one of these days you're going to get hurt bad enough that I can't clean up after him." He felt bad for laying on the guilt trip almost immediately after the words were out of his mouth. But he'd _worried_ , dammit, and apparently, he'd worried for a good reason. He unzipped the back of Bob's suit and headed back towards their bedroom still shaking his head.

He found a pair of his jeans wadded up at the end of the bed that seemed, more or less, clean and tugged them on, fishing mismatched socks out of the sheets and stepping into them next. Bob's stuff was a lot neater than his was, years of military precision still lingering despite the total clusterfuck the rest of the place was. There were clean clothes folded in a basket in front of the dresser, which Bob had been in the middle of putting away when he'd been dragged out earlier. Weasel found a pair of jeans and teeshirt inside, gathering it all up along with his keys and wallet off the top of the nightstand.

Back in the living room, Bob was standing in a pile of green fabric, trying to tug his foot out of the suit while balancing one hand on the back of the couch, french fries stuffed in his mouth. Crouching down, Weasel tugged the suit off his foot and unfolded the jeans, holding them for Bob to step into and wiggled them up. The teeshirt was harder to get on, trying to ease it over Bob's broken arm, then over his head, before he poked his good arm through the other hole. His hair came out mussed and his whole arm had bloomed into a massive blue and purple bruise already, but Bob was still trying to force that cheerful expression on his face in the hope that it would make Weasel feel a bit better. Instead, he rolled his eyes and picked up the McDonald's bags.

"Get your disgusting coffee and let's go."

*

The emergency room was strangely busy for almost five in the morning, tired-looking people crowded in waiting for their turn. Weasel wondered if having a broken arm would take precedence over anything, but the nurse popping her gum behind the front desk didn't say anything other than "Fill out these forms and we'll get to you," in the same bored voice she spoke to everyone else with.

Weasel shuffled Bob over to a corner and sat him down, filling out as much of the information as he could himself. He knew Bob's birth date and the fake social security number he'd acquired, and all of his allergies, but what should have been the easiest part of the forms was the part that tripped him up. After a moment of chewing absently on the end of his pen ( _his_ pen, not the one that the nurse tried to hand him; there was no way he was touching something that so many unknown sick people had also touched), he glanced over with a frown.

"What _is_ your last name?" he asked.

Bob shrugged. "Don't have one," he said. "Or, well... I guess I did, but I just don't remember what it is. We were all just different heads of the same creature over there, the only reason I have a name in the first place is because Wade gave me one."

"You know, I never did think Bob sounded very German..." he said, biting back a chuckle. "He could have thought of something better, though."

"You don't like it?" Bob sulked.

Weasel snorted. "It suits you," he teased. "But I can't exactly put Hydra in the last name category, you know. That would be a bit suspect."

Shrugging, Bob shook his head. "Put whatever you want," he said, leaning over to rest his chin on Weasel's shoulder and watched as he quickly jotted down _Hammer_ in the last blank. Bob did his best to hide a smirk as the door to the waiting room swung open and an older nurse with a clipboard looked around. "Hammer," she called, "Jack Hammer."

Weasel stood and helped Bob up, sliding his pen back in his pocket as they crossed the waiting room, glad to get this over with quick. He handed off the admittance forms as she walked them down the hallway to an exam room.

"How'd you break your arm?" she asked, looking briefly at Weasel before his gaze flicked over to Bob instead.

"Ah..." he started, "have you ever heard of parkour?" He offered her his most innocent, if slightly embarrassed smile, and she shook her head as she made a note on her clipboard. "I fell off a wall."

"You kids need to find some safer hobbies," she replied as she quickly weighed him and measured his height.

"At least we're not sitting inside on the computer all day," he offered, beaming at Weasel who pretended not to hear the comment, slinking down in a chair in the corner instead. "But yeah, I just... you know. Fell on it wrong. And the guy I was with doesn't have a car, so we had to walk home and Weasel here drove me. That's why it took so long to get here."

She continued making notes, taking his temperature, then flicking the little plastic cap in the trash after. She was about to turn towards the door when something on the forms caused her to pause. "You're... Bob," she said, looking over as Bob squirmed up on the exam table, he smiled and nodded back at her. Then she canted her head in Weasel's direction. "And you're Jack, then?"

"Yep," he answered, nudging his glasses back up his nose.

"You two aren't brothers..."

Weasel shook his head, watching Bob swing his feet and grin over at him. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem," she replied, looking maybe a little confused but not entirely put off by it. "Just making sure we file paperwork for the right person," she said as she swept out of the room, letting the door swing closed behind her.

Bob didn't say anything more about the name mix-up, though he kept casting Weasel these little grins he must have thought were sneaky. They were actually pretty cute, though Weasel wasn't about to admit it or even glance up from his phone for long enough to acknowledge that he saw them. He only went so far with overt displays of affection and he wasn't going to humor Bob just because he was injured.

It was a while before a lab technician came back to take Bob down to get an x-ray of his arm, and he was back in about fifteen minutes to wait all over again, still swinging his gangly long legs over the end of the table. It didn't take long before his boredom caught up with him and he started asking questions - what did Weasel do all night, what did he have for dinner, what was Al doing, was she mad about the maze of empty beer cans Wade had set up in her kitchen earlier in the evening, was he working on anything interesting... Weasel answered all of them, no matter how silly they were, because he knew that Bob was probably trying to take his mind off the pain, which so far he'd been handling without complaint.

He never did complain, though - no matter how bad it was he was always the last one to say anything hurt or was sore or, apparently, broken. Weasel wondered if that was part of his training or if it was just another way Bob went out of his way to not be inconvenient. He'd thought to ask, a couple of times, but he knew that Bob didn't really like talking about HYDRA. When he did, he tended to fall into the old mantras and just repeat the canned lines over and over. After a while, when Weasel was sure it wasn't the brainwashing seeping through, he figured out that it was a defense mechanism, that Bob just didn't like talking about his time there. What he got out of Wade was that Bob got sucked into working there and signed on before he really knew what he was getting himself into. He'd done it for a girl, Wade said, and it was always a girl who got guys like them into trouble like this (though Wade was about as forthcoming about that as Bob was). After that, he became one of countless nameless, unidentifiable soldiers who lived and died for a cause none of them fully understood or believed in. But it was a place to go, a place where they felt wanted, and Weasel understood that well enough not to press.

So he answered questions and relayed the plot of _Farscape_ episodes that Bob knew as well as Weasel did, just to keep him distracted until the doctor came in. It was just a simple fracture, he said, and they could get it wrapped up in no time and send him on his way with a prescription for low-grade painkillers. Bob kept smiling, but Weasel could see through those fake smiles and knew the nervousness and worry they hid. He should get up and go over there, he thought, but he wasn't particularly fond of doctors either and Bob seemed to have it covered. It was easier for him to hide in the corner and hope that they didn't turn their attention on him at any point. Fortunately, he made it through the litany of aftercare instructions without anyone acting like he was the responsible one, and soon enough the cast was drying and the doctors were ushering them out of the exam room to make room for some old woman hiding a hacking cough behind her petunia-embroidered handkerchief.

He steered Bob through the waiting room and out with a hand on his lower back, helping him into the car when they got the parking lot, and pulling the seatbelt across him. He saw Bob reach down between his feet to where the McDonald's bags were sitting on the floorboard, sliding into the front seat as Bob pulled the small, plastic-wrapped toy from inside the Happy Meal box. He caught the wide grin that followed out of the corner of his eye and glanced over to see Bob wiggling a bright pink plastic pony at him. He wasn't as well-versed in this sort of thing as Wade and Bob were, but he could tell by the happiness on his boyfriend's face that it was the one that completed his collection, the one that Wade had made such a fuss about _not_ giving him.

Weasel smiled back, leaning across the center console to draw Bob in for a quick kiss, the two of them sharing a knowing glance between them as he backed out of his parking space and peeled off towards the exit.


End file.
